


Only Human

by RosieTwiggs



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post 3x22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieTwiggs/pseuds/RosieTwiggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Lincoln's death, Fitz is forced to face some uncomfortable truths, and he and Jemma have a long overdue conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Human

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you forever to whitecanarrow and ash818 for editing and sound-boarding. This one was really hard to get out, and I'm still not sure I got it right.

“So what now?”

Jemma, always the pragmatist even in the face of complete and utter devastation.

But the truth is, none of them know.

Daisy’s sobs echo through the room, the only sound other than the Zephyr’s engines, still pushing them up, up to the optimal altitude for detonation.

Agent May’s the first one to move. She recalibrates their flight path, stopping their ascent, and Fitz’s ears pop as they slow and change direction.

“Simmons.” Coulson’s voice is soft, too low to carry to over to Daisy. “There should be supplies in the med pod. Can you-?” He hesitates. “See what you can do for her, please.”

Fitz catches Jemma’s eye. The tears are flowing freely, but he can see her pull herself together, push everything else aside.

Daisy doesn’t even seem to notice when Simmons pulls her gently to her feet, steering her out of the room.

Now that Coulson’s gotten started, he falls back into the role of Director easily. “Mack, I need you in the cockpit with May. Get us back down to base safely. The Zephyr may have high altitude capabilities, but there are limits.”

With a last glance to the back of the plane, Mack nods and disappears with Agent May into the cockpit.

“Sir, what do you want me to…?” Fitz trails off, gesturing vaguely.

“We need to know there’s no chance any of the toxin entered the atmosphere. Run diagnostics on the explosion. Let me know what you’ve found once we touch down.”

It’s a ridiculous order. They both know there’s no chance anything entered the atmosphere, but Fitz does it anyway. Right now, doing a pointless task is better than doing nothing.

He doesn’t know what Coulson plans to do, but Fitz is alone in the room a moment later.

~*~

The primitives have all been dealt with by the time they make it back. Dealt with… As though they weren’t people with families and lives and -

For now, his initial instinct is relief that the danger has passed, but he knows there will be dozens of fallen agents to mourn once the dust settles.

The base is theirs once more, but it’s in shambles. Fitz has lost count of how many times they’ve had to pick up the pieces and rebuild.

He’s starting to wonder if there’s even a point.

He hands his report to Coulson with a nod and goes to check on the state of the lab.

The next few hours are spent sweeping up shattered glass, rebooting their servers, assessing the damages to their computer system… Simmons is just on the other side of the lab wall most of the time, in the med bay with Daisy.

He’d caught a glimpse of her on a gurney when Mack and Simmons had rolled her in. Asleep. Jemma had probably given her some form of sedative to -

By the time Fitz drags himself into his room, he feels wrung out, like a used dish towel. It’s a mess here as well - has been since Daisy left under Hive’s sway. He hasn’t bothered to clean up before now, opting to spend nearly every night in Jemma’s room instead.

With a sigh, he begins setting his books to right, straightening the poster on his wall. He lets his hands drop to his sides.

It’s useless. All of it, bloody, fucking _useless_. With a snarl, he grabs the poster and rips it off the wall, throwing it across the room. Something shatters - a lamp, and he sinks onto the sofa, face in his hands.

He’s so tired. More than anything else, he is just so _utterly_ exhausted.

He should go see if Jemma needs his help. He should go see Daisy, even if she’s sleeping, just to make sure she’s okay.

He can’t move.

Eventually, the exhaustion takes over and he falls asleep.

~*~

The couch shifting wakes him up.

Fitz sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes and glancing at his phone. It’s 3:27 in the morning. He’s been asleep for close to four hours.

Someone turned the lights off, and when he checks the other end of the sofa, he finds Jemma curled up and fast asleep.

Groaning, he runs a hand through his hair, scratching at the nape of his neck.

“Hey.” He touches her hip, rubbing gently. “Jemma, hey. Wake up.”

“Hmmm?” She stirs, turning and looking up at him blearily. She blinks. Her eyes are red rimmed and swollen. “Fitz. What time is it?”

“Middle of the night,” he murmurs. “Come on, we should get into bed. We’ll both be miserable in the morning if we stay here.”

He pulls her up, holding her hand and leading her to the bedroom. She sits down heavily on the bed while Fitz rummages through his drawers, looking for something she can wear. He hasn’t done laundry in - it must be close to two weeks at this point… There’s not much left. One of his under shirts should be fine.

“Come on,” he says softly when he turns and finds her staring off into space. “Let’s get you set.” He kneels, getting her trousers undone, and she leans back automatically to lift her hips so he can slide them off, getting them down and off one leg and then the other.

When he pulls her up she doesn’t resist, just keeps staring, eyes lowered. The shadows under her eyes look even deeper like this.

He makes quick work of her blouse, hesitating for only a second before unclasping her bra and sliding the straps down and off her arms. She shivers a bit, completely naked aside from her panties, but doesn’t say anything. Fitz gets the shirt over her head and she pulls her arms through the sleeves. He’s not much bigger than she is, the shirt only coming down to cover the tops of her thighs.

She inhales deeply, twisting the hem in her hands.

“Jemma? Jemma, look at me.”

She bites her lip, shaking her head, and he sees it coming before it happens.

“Hey, hey Jemma, Jemma, it’s okay, we’re okay, we-”

Her face crumples, and he immediately wraps his arms around her as she shatters, sobbing into his chest.

His own eyes burn with unshed tears, but he swallows past the lump in his throat, planting himself firmly as her emotional touchstone, unmoving and stalwart, holding her until the storm is past.

“Shh, shh, I’m here, it’s okay…” He mumbles words that sound like comfort but don’t really mean anything on a night like tonight, keeping up the litany, whispering into her hair, against her cheek, to the darkness around them, until he runs out of things to say and her tears run their course.

His chest feels tight, his skin crackling with restless energy. He still wants to run, wants to fight, wants to scream, but in the stillness that follows, it’s Jemma’s lips on his that calm him. She’s still clinging to him, and he can taste the salt from her tears on her skin, but she takes some of the burden from his shoulders, and it’s enough of a relief that he falls the rest of the way into her.

Neither of them speak - there’s nothing left to say - as Jemma pulls him back on to the bed. He covers her completely, needing to feel her beneath him tonight, needing to hear her gasps, her whimpers, her moans. He makes quick work of his own clothes, dipping back down to taste her skin, taking anything and everything she’s willing to give him.

When she comes it’s with a sob, two of his fingers buried inside of her, and his tongue working her past the point of no return. It’s not enough. He needs to feel her around him, needs the deep comfort of her. He gives her the time it takes him to get a condom on to come down from her orgasm before he’s pushing inside her, pulling her leg up around his waist. He’s trembling with the effort it takes not to just give in, to fall completely apart. He touches his forehead to hers, their gasps of breath mingling when he starts to move, and her cheeks are wet again, but he no longer knows if it’s with her own tears or his.

She digs her nails into his shoulders, making him hiss, but the pain is good. The pain means he’s alive, Jemma’s small cries mean she’s alive, and that’s what he focuses on when he follows her into their own _petite mort_ , the only sort of death he ever wants to face with her again.

~*~

Daisy disappears the day after the funeral.

There’s no body, so they bury an empty coffin. It’s a small ceremony - just the people who knew him.

It’s nowhere near what Lincoln deserves, but Fitz thinks Lincoln would have hated it. He has a feeling he would have hated it even more if there’d been more of a to-do.

Nevertheless, the team stands around the grave, looking up towards the sky as the coffin is lowered into the ground. That’s where they direct their parting words and their thanks. Not to the earth but to the stars.

Daisy doesn’t speak. She stands, pale and frail and still - anathema to the Daisy that Fitz has come to know.

Jemma keeps looking over at her, her own tears falling freely. When Fitz tries to take her hand, she pulls away, shaking her head.

They need time. They all just need time, he tells himself.

But Daisy’s gone the next day anyway.

“She just needs time,” he tells Jemma. She’s sitting on his sofa, fiddling with the edge of her blouse. “Come on, come to bed.”

She shakes her head. “No, you go. I’ll come later.”

So he does. But when Fitz wakes up in the morning, she isn’t there, and he finds out later - she went back to her own room for the night.

~*~

The day of the Seychelles trip comes and goes.

He doesn’t even realize until halfway through the day, and when he does, his chest constricts at the loss. It’s like a punch to the stomach, and he can’t help but feel as though they’ve missed a once in a lifetime opportunity. This was it - this was their chance to get away, to be happy. And they let it go.

Consciously, he knows that’s ridiculous. There will be other opportunities, other trips. But it’s just another example of the cosmos making sure they never get to just stop for moment - stop and take a breath and be _happy_.

“We should have been on a plane right now,” he says, when he finds Jemma frowning at her laptop in the kitchen.

“What?” She’s distracted, not really listening to him.

“The Seychelles. We were supposed to have left this morning.”

She looks up at that, and is she...? He catches a flash of guilt before she looks away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yes. Well. Perhaps it’s better this way. I’m not quite sure I’m feeling up to a romantic getaway when Daisy’s off who knows where and it’s only been a week since-”

“You knew?” Fitz cuts her off, something like anger, but duller, more resigned, trailing down his back. “You remembered?”

“I-” She glances at him again and then shuts her laptop. “Yes. I realized yesterday, but I-”

“And you didn’t mention it?”

“I didn’t think-”

Fitz throws his hands up in the air. “You didn’t think, Jemma? What - that it was the right time? Or think to even ask me how _I_ felt about it?”

She’s getting angry now. “How was I to know you’d forgotten?” she retorts, voice rising. “I just assumed you felt the same way!”

“By _asking_ me, Jemma! That’s how you could have known! Clearly, I didn’t feel the same way.”

“ _Clearly_.”

Fitz drops his hands at his side, narrowing his eyes. “Oh. What’s _that_ supposed to mean, then?”

She’s so stubborn. He sees her set her shoulders and tighten her jaw and he knows there’ll be no getting to her now.

When she speaks, her voice is controlled, almost dangerously low. “What it means, is it can’t have mattered that much if you forgot-” he scoffs at that- “and _maybe_ Daisy and Lincoln should matter to you a bit _more_ than getting away at a time like this.”

 _That_ he feels like slap in the face.

He takes an involuntary step back, trying to gather his thoughts.

“That’s - that’s not fair.”

Simmons looks away, but she doesn’t take it back.

“It’s too late now, anyway,” she says at last to the counter-top. It’s not an apology.

“I, uh-” he gestures vaguely to the door- “I have some… things I have to-” He shakes his head, pressure building behind his eyes. “Right, I’ll - I’ll be in the lab if you -” He turns and walks out.

~*~

She doesn’t come to his room that night. Or the next one. Or the night after that.

Something’s broken down between them, and he doesn’t know what it is. And if he doesn’t know the source of the problem, he can’t fix it.

Jemma hasn’t been cold to him, not really, but since the first night after Lincoln died, she’s been distant, pulling away.

And he isn’t willing to give up on this. Not after everything they’ve been through to get it.

He catches her on her way back to her room after she’s finished up in the lab for the evening. She’s barely spoken two words to him in the last 3 hours, and he’s had enough.

“We need to talk.”

“Fitz!” She jumps, her hand flying to her chest. “You gave me a fright!”

He won’t be distracted. “Jemma.”

Her brow furrows and she glances behind him, towards her door, then sighs and puts on a false smile - too bright. “Talk. Very well. What about?”

He steps towards her, nostrils flaring, but stops. He can’t come into this angry, or nothing will actually get said. “You’ve -” he clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to stay focused, trying to get the right words out - “you’ve been avoiding me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffs, looking away. “I have not been avoiding you, I’ve just been very busy after-” Fitz isn’t willing to play this game, not anymore. He cuts her off.

“Was it a lie, then? When you told me we wouldn’t let anything get in the way of us being happy? Or did you only mean it as long as it was easy? Until the first sign of trouble appeared?”

Simmons freezes and finally looks up at him, scowling. She pushes past him and unlocks her door, holding it open for him. When he’s inside, she shuts it quietly, leaning her forehead against it.

“Easy?” she asks, turning around. She huffs and crosses her arms. “Easy. I don’t see how getting over Daisy and then Hive trying to kill us and turn us into grotesque parodies of inhumans could be considered easy. I’m not really sure what you-”

“Yes, Jemma. _That_ was easy. Outside forces keeping us apart? The threat of death? _That’s_ easy. For us that’s practically an everyday occurrence at this point! Oh, Fitz and Simmons almost died? Someone got sucked into a portal or is in a coma? Must be a Tuesday!” He’s gesturing wildly at this point, all his frustration, all his anger, coming out in a blur of words and motion.

“But between us? Is this how it’s going to be? The moment something cracks, something goes wrong - are we just not going to talk about it? Because the way I see it, there’s more to it than that. I’m not going to let this fall apart - I’m not going to let anything get in the way of-”

“Yes, I know!” She’s yelling louder than he is now. “And that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s the problem! That approach is exactly the problem and you don’t even realize it, do you?” Her breath is coming out in quick bursts, and Fitz can see the shine in her eyes, see how close she is to tears.

“I don’t - what do you mean?”

She folds her lips between her teeth, swallowing visibly, regaining control. “It’s _you_ , Fitz. When you say you aren’t willing to let anything get in the way of us being together, what you really mean is that you’d do anything to keep me from being hurt, or killed. You’d do anything not to lose me.”

Now he’s confused. “And?”

“And I don’t want that!” She slams her hand down on the dresser, the tears finally spilling over. “I don’t want to end up looking like Daisy did on the Zephyr! I don’t want to need to be sedated because I can’t process the grief of losing you in a misguided grand gesture! I don’t want to just stand there, fading away, watching them lower your casket into the ground - if there’s even anything left to lower!”

Her hand is still on the dresser, and she looks down at it, curls it into a tight fist.

“You say you don’t want to live in a world without me. I feel the same way. I know it’s a real possibility, but you seem determined that if either of us is going to go, I’ll be the one who gets left behind to pick up the pieces.”

Fitz sits down heavily on the edge of her bed. “You’re saying you think Lincoln was wrong to take Daisy’s place? You’re saying you think Daisy should have been the one to-”

“No, that’s not it.” Jemma sighs. “I’m saying that we always knew how this was going to end. We saw all the signs - we watched Lincoln take every risk imaginable, all in the name of saving Daisy, with no thought to his personal safety or health. And each time he did, you wanted to let him, and I - I knew how it felt to be the one on the outside looking in.”

He frowns. “But don’t you understand why?”

“ _I_ understand. I just don’t think you do,” she shoots back.

The silence stretches between them, a gulf almost as wide as the space that separated them when she’d been sucked into the portal.

“It’s selfish,” she finally whispers into the void.

Selfish? He’s incredulous when he asks, “How is it selfish? How could someone sacrificing themselves to save the person they love be selfish?”

“Because _you_ don’t have to keep going once the dust has settled. You get to die. That’s it. You wash your hands of the pain and the loneliness of living in a world without you in it. _You_ decided that that pain was more than you could bear, so you’d make _me_ go through it instead!”

They’re not talking about Lincoln and Daisy anymore.

Her voice is small when she adds, “If it’s so horrible, why would you wish it on me? Why do your feelings matter so much more than mine?”

“Jemma,” his voice cracks on her name. He’s never even considered - had never thought -

“It could have been you in that plane. We both know it. We’ve been living on borrowed time ever since you decided it would be me who survived at the bottom of the ocean. And I’ve been grateful for every second it’s given us. Because we were lucky, Fitz - incredibly, _terribly_ lucky. But I can’t see what happened to Daisy and ignore this anymore.”

“What would you have had him do?” His mouth is dry, he can’t seem to swallow past the dread in his chest. “She’d be dead now if Lincoln hadn’t - How would that be better?”

“Did you even look at her Fitz? Did she look better off for being the one left behind?”

And he can’t answer that, because he knows she’s right.

He’s experienced fear before - experienced true terror so often in the last couple of years that he’s lost count. But now he almost can’t make himself ask his next question.

“So where does that leave us?”

Jemma wraps her arms around her middle and moves to sit carefully on the bed next to him, leaving plenty of space between them, he notices.

“I don’t know, Fitz.”

His dread expands, gaping wide like a chasm, and it’s all he can do to scrabble to hold on.

“All I know is we can’t keep on as we have been. Something has to change in how we approach this. I need you to try to understand where I’m coming from.”

“I do,” he rushes to respond. “I do, and Jemma, I think - you have to know - you’re the stronger of the two of us. I know it - it’s a fact. It isn’t fair, not for a second, but if one of us was ever going to get left behind without the other, you’re the one who’d manage it. I’d - I’d break. But you-”

She’s made of tempered steel. She’d bend, but break? Never.

“You don’t know that. And I don’t ever want to have to find out. I shouldn’t have to.” Her voice has dropped to a murmur.

He doesn’t know what to tell her - what he could possibly say to fix this. He looks at her helplessly, begging for a lifeline.

“You dying for me isn’t a romantic gesture, Fitz. It isn’t brave or courageous. Bravery is promising to keep going, even if the worst happens.”

She reaches between them, taking his hand and linking their fingers.

“I can’t live my life with the double fear of losing you and knowing what my own death would do to you. One of those is more than enough, thank you.”

He looks down at their joined hands, frowning and working through her words. What she’s asking him for seems impossible. It goes against everything he’s ever believed. Can he just let go? Make her a promise to keep living if she -

But it’s what he would want for her.

“I don’t know that I can - I can’t just not try to save you if you’re ever in danger.”

“I’m not asking you to do that. I couldn’t either.”

“Then what exactly _are_ you asking?”

She squeezes his hand and shifts closer on the bed. When she brings her other hand up to cup his cheek, his eyes fall shut, and he soaks in the warmth of her skin. Maybe this isn’t as hopeless as he fears.

“I’m asking you to accept that we live dangerous lives. Every moment we have together is a gift. One I would like to fully enjoy. But if something happens tomorrow - if we get attacked, or a virus gets released in the base, or I get hit by a car crossing the street - anything - I need you to promise me that I’ll be able to rest knowing you’ll keep living.”

He hates it. Hates the very idea of it.

“Jemma,” he murmurs. He’s spent the last week feeling her pull away, feeling them break apart. She’s so close now he can smell lab chemicals and her jasmine shampoo and something settles in him. He leans into her, kissing her lips once, twice, shuddering when her nails scratch against his stubble, breathing her in.

She melts into him, and he pushes her down, hovering over her to take her mouth, the slide of her tongue on his both agonizing and _necessary_.

This is something she needs from him, and he’s never been able to deny her.

“Do you swear,” he mutters breathlessly between kisses, “swear by everything - by _this_ -” he kisses her again - “that you’ll make the same promise?”

She pulls away and looks up at him, still holding one of his hands and bringing it to her chest. She’s never looked so solemn.

“I do.”

And though it tears him up inside, though his heart rebels at being in a situation where he might need to accept her death and move on, if she’s asking him to promise her…

There’s dangerous intent when he kisses her again - a promise that goes deeper than words. And if it’s combined with his own desperation, well - he refuses to feel any sort of remorse for that.

“Okay,” he says, biting at her lip. Jemma arches into him, and he grips her hips, fingers digging into the softness of her. He shuts his eyes tightly, breathing heavily. “I do too, then. For you - Jemma. I promise to try.”

~*~

Nothing really changes. Except that everything changes.

It’s an awareness, in the back of his mind. The knowledge that it could all end tomorrow, but the world would keep on turning.

From time to time, Fitz will let himself think about what his life would be without her. And it isn’t a black hole of emptiness.

It can’t be, he promised. But it’s a possibility he has to consider.

He won’t ever stop fighting for her. He won’t ever give up on her.

They both know he can die for her, and that he would, but he loves her enough to live for her as well.

Neither of their promises are steel clad. Life is tenuous, at best.

But they’re only human.

 


End file.
